


Armor

by A Magiluna Stormwriter (ariestess)



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:24:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariestess/pseuds/A%20Magiluna%20Stormwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day starts as it usually does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Armor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frogy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogy/gifts).



> Date Written: 27 March - 10 April 2011  
> Written for: [](http://npmexchange.livejournal.com/profile)[**npmexchange**](http://npmexchange.livejournal.com/) 2011  
>  Recipient: [](http://frogy.livejournal.com/profile)[**frogy**](http://frogy.livejournal.com/)  
>  Prompt: ["what she was wearing" by denver butson](http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com/2009/02/23/denver-butson-what-she-was-wearing/)  
> Summary: The day starts as it usually does.  
> Spoilers: Up through episode 2x16 "Original Song".  
> Warnings: n/a  
> Website: ShatterStorm Productions -- Doggie Duo  
> Link to: <http://bdkk.shatterstorm.net/>  
> Archive: ShatterStorm Productions only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…
> 
> Author’s Disclaimer: "Glee", the characters and situations depicted are the property of Ryan Murphy Productions, Twentieth Century Fox Television, and Fox Network. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with "Glee", Fox, or any representatives of the actors.
> 
> Author’s Notes: When I got my assignment, I really debated which of the three poems offered to use :: ["what she was wearing" by denver butson](http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com/2009/02/23/denver-butson-what-she-was-wearing/), ["Things To Do Today" by Joe Wenderoth](http://books.google.com/books?id=12HL9s6q1cEC&lpg=PP1&dq=it%20is%20if%20i%20speak%20joe%20wenderoth&pg=PA44#v=onepage&q=things%20to%20do%20today&f=false), and ["This Is Just To Say" by William Carlos Williams](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535). I knew I'd be writing Brittany/Santana, but I wasn't sure what sort of angle I wanted to work it from. And then, as I was studying the three poem options, I kept returning to "what she was wearing" and remembering the angst that Santana's been going through. And my story just… _happened_.
> 
> Dedication: My muses, for always giving things a shot…
> 
> Beta: [](http://cuspofqueens.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**cuspofqueens**](http://cuspofqueens.dreamwidth.org/) & [](http://shatterpath.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**shatterpath**](http://shatterpath.dreamwidth.org/)

The day starts as it usually does. You wake up at oh-dark-thirty for a brisk three mile run before school. You could do more, but that's for later. An equally brisk shower is at the top of your to do list when you get back. The hot water scalds your skin, exacerbated by the rough scrubbing from your loofah, but it's the only way you allow the tears to fall anymore.

"She doesn't get it. She doesn't get to do this to me."

Crushed ice in a washcloth does wonders for your puffy red eyes, and you spend the time listening to the music for Coach Sylvester's new routine. There's no way in hell you'll make yourself a target for her ridicule any longer, which means you know the routine better than she does. She may not let you be HBIC, choosing Quinn for that coveted role again, but she'll find no flaws in your routines or your cheers ever again. After mentally reviewing the routine for a third time, your closet turns into a war zone in your attempt to find the perfect outfit. Coach still hasn't allowed you the right to wear your Cheerios uniform every day yet. It's a stupid rule, but it's one you'll follow if you want to remain a Cheerio.

"It's all I have left."

Half a dozen deep breaths do wonders to stop the stinging prickle of tears behind your eyelids. No shower, no tears; that's the rule. That whole lot of Glee losers have seen you cry once already, and that's one time too many. Turning back to the contents of your walk-in closet, all you can see is the small corner that's always belonged to Brittany. Each item is lovingly stroked, bringing up a cloud of painfully familiar scents. And the memories to go with them. This whole love thing is a load of crap, and you don't want it anymore.

Another deep breath into your lungs, and you hold it until the blackness starts to take over your field of vision. The breath is released harshly, starved lungs gulping in oxygen so fast, you nearly hyperventilate. Sliding to the floor, you let the tears fall again, helpless against the onslaught.

"Damn it! When is this going to end?"

*****

"Santana?"

Blinking slowly in an attempt to dislodge the gravel that somehow made its way under your eyelids, you look up to see your father's concerned face. Another blink changes the view, and you find yourself curled up in a ball on your closet floor, Brittany's favorite sleep shirt clutched tightly to your chest. With your father's help, you ease up into a seated position and rub at your eyes.

" _Mija_ , are you okay?"

His hand rests against your forehead, your cheek, just like when you were a little girl, and you fight the urge to curl up in his arms and sob your eyes out. There's such worry in his eyes. You feel horrible for putting that look on his face again.

"No, I-- I'm okay, _Papi_. I must have stayed up too late last night studying."

"Is that why Brittany called my office after second period to make sure you weren't dying in the hospital?"

Confusion short circuits any thoughts you might have had at his question. Brittany worried about you? Well, of course she did, stupid! She still thinks it's okay to have your lady kisses while dating Artie. After all, _you_ were the one that told her it wasn't cheating.

"I'm sorry, _Papi_ ," you say softly, leaning into the hand still cradling your cheek. "I must have overdone my run this morning."

"You and I both know that's not the truth, Santana." His voice is soft, but it has that tone of parental demand that you hate. "You've never willingly missed a day of school in your life. I know you've skipped a few classes here and there" -- you can't help the blush of embarrassment at this -- "but you've always been honest with me about it. Why are you lying now?"

You pause for a moment or two, trying to decide what to tell him. You can't tell him the truth, he wouldn't understand. Or he might understand all too well, and you don't need his pity on top of everything else right now.

"It's Br-- It's this boy at school, _Papi_ , that's all. I'll just get ready and go to school now," you finally say, forcing yourself to your feet. "I'll talk to Mr. Schuester and Ms. Collins about what I missed in my first two classes. Coach will probably make me run extra laps after Cheerios practice to make up for missing her class. Um, go ahead and have dinner without me. I'll just make something when I get home."

You don't even bother to wait for his answer, beginning to pull out the elements that make up your favorite Bitch Queen outfit. It takes a moment to realize you're still clutching Brittany's sleep shirt tightly in your hand. With the deliberate precision your father uses as a surgeon, you put the sleep shirt back on its pink satin padded hanger in Brittany's section of your closet.

"Okay, well, you just make sure you check in with Brittany when you get to school, _mija_. She sounded pretty worried about you when she called. In fact, it's Friday. Why don't you see if she'd like to sleep over tonight? I'll let you stay up and watch movies until the sun comes up."

The implication in his words has you firmly resolving to pack up Brittany's things from your closet when you get home tonight. You can drop the box off at her house Sunday morning when you know her family's at church. That way you won't need to see her. And there's no way she'll be coming over to your house ever again, not until your heart doesn't feel like shattering at the thought of her.

"I'll talk to Brit, but I think she's got something planned with her boyfriend for tonight." You stumble over that one word, hoping desperately that your father didn't notice.

"Well, maybe some other time then," he says, and you're positive that he knows, but won't push you about it. He's a good father like that. "How about we go see your _abuela_ tomorrow? Maybe she'll have some _tamales_ made, just like you like them."

"Thanks, _Papi_ , I think I'd like that."

 _Please just go before I start crying again!_

He strokes his hand over your hair briefly before heading out of your bedroom.

Taking a moment to recompose yourself, you drop your robe and begin to dress. In moments, you're dressed and applying your makeup. With each piece of clothing, with each layer of makeup, another brick is added to the wall around your heart. You've bared your soul for the first and last time, and no one else is going to get in and hurt you ever again.

Especially Brittany.

Slipping into your Cheerios jacket, you grab for your book bag and head out the door.

"Look out, students of William McKinley High, Bitch Queen Santana's back and she's taking no prisoners."


End file.
